


All of Me

by WinterTheWriter



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: A LOT of violence, AU, Child Abuse, Insecurity, Later rape, M/M, Self-Harm, Sherlock and Jim are both sort of OOC at first but it gets better as they grow up, Starts out as kid!lock, This is very angsty and shippy and yeah, and then teen!lock, only an AU of Sherlock's past, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, despite popular belief, has known James Moriarty since he was five years old. In fact, they were best friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smile

**Author's Note:**

> This is semi-canon compliant, and I do not suggest reading it if you have triggers, a weak stomach, or if you love Sherlock's father in BBC canon.

His mother, despite the various protests from the little boy, straps an uncomfortable paper cone to his head on the morning of his fifth birthday. Sherlock pouts through it all, tugging at the tight elastic that clings almost painfully to the tender skin of his neck. He feels choked and constricted by it, but he’s learned by now not to complain and so he doesn’t. His little arms, chubby with baby-fat, cross over his chest in a picture-perfect pose of the put-out child. His mother tuts at him and presses a wet, warm kiss to his forehead, easing the pout just slightly. “It’s your birthday, my son. Do try and smile.” 

“Birthdays are stupid,” the youngest Holmes retorts, a whine in his voice. “I didn’t choose to be born.”

“Oh, hush, you. The children will be arriving soon. You’ll make lots of new friends.” Mrs. Holmes grins at him with red-stained lips and ruffles the hair not covered by the hat. Sherlock fights the urge to lean away and stick out his tongue. Even at five years of age, he thinks himself above such things. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s only-slightly-deeper-than-a-child’s voice drawls as the almost-teen slinks into their living room, plopping down onto the couch, “do as Mummy says. Wouldn’t want to upset her. Or father.” The last part is added as an afterthought, biting and with cruel intent. It causes Sherlock to flinch and scowl at the ground in silent obedience, short legs kicking the air absently. Their father is a stern, cold man with a permanent scowl and hands that seem to be incapable of forming anything other than a fist. Sherlock knows what that fist feels like all too well. Mycroft grins in triumph at his younger brother’s defeat their mother scoffs at her sons’ antics and walks from the room, shaking her head and mumbling under her breath.

“No one’s going to come, you know,” Mycroft continues, arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t have any friends. No one likes you.”

“Shut up, Mycroft. They’ll come. Mummy said so.” This time, Sherlock does stick out his tongue, his voice coated with childhood petulance. 

“She just said that to be nice. Who would want to be friends with a boy like you?” 

The biting comment has the desired result. Sherlock flinches as if from a physical blow, his lower lip quivering as his eyes water. “Pe-people could like me,” he mumbles, hesitance and insecurity making the words shaky and quiet. 

“Oh, please,” Mycroft scoffs with a laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t be so stupid. You’ll probably never have a friend.” At this, Sherlock pushes himself off the couch and, with his big brother’s laughter ringing in his ears, runs from the living room, tears streaming down his face.

~

At twenty minutes past the scheduled party time, no one has shown up yet. Sherlock’s tears are dried, but his stomach has that sad, empty sort of feeling that he usually only gets after his father disciplines him. He sits in a chair far too big for him by the window, staring out at the front lawn with a forlorn but hopeful expression. All he wants is for one person to show up. Just one, to prove to Mycroft that he is likeable, that he is capable of having friends. 

~

Ten minutes later, and he’s pulled off his party hat. His mother watches her son from the other room, a hand on her heart. Sherlock has pulled his knees to his chest on the chair and embraced them, cheek resting on them as he continues to watch out the window. He isn’t hopeful anymore, but ever the resilient boy, he does not look away. Not yet. Mycroft sees him as he walks towards the kitchen, and just shakes his head before continuing. 

~

It’s an hour and a half past the party’s beginning. Only half an hour left until the end of it. Sherlock is no longer looking out the window, but instead crying softly into his knees, tears rolling down his skin. Distantly, he thinks about how peculiar his feelings are. He could not care less about any of the boys or girls at school. He does not want to be their friend, and he usually does not want to be anyone’s friend. But he’s lonely, so he does, for the sole reason of proving to himself and his family that he’s more than just a burden to them. 

He wants to know what it’s like to have a reason to smile. 

At the daycare he goes to, he just stares blankly at everyone who approaches him until they walk away, usually calling him a mean name of some sort. Otherwise, he sits at a small desk in the corner and draws pictures of smiles, trying to mimic them, and then stopping because the motion just feels weird and lost on his face. His teachers fret to his mother about how antisocial and worrying Sherlock is, but nothing ever changes. 

Mycroft has locked himself in his room for the night, but not before calling Sherlock a baby and reminding him of how un-loveable he is. 

The doorbell rings suddenly, and Sherlock jerks his head up from his knees to peer out the window as his mother trots to the door. He sees just a side view of a middle-aged, dark-haired woman standing with a little black-haired boy who looks around his age. Urgently, he wipes the tears from his cheeks and sniffles, grabbing the party hat and pulling it on before scrambling from the chair, his heart pounding in his ears. He races to his mother’s side and grabs her hand, his eyes locked on the boy’s. 

“Anyways, I’m very sorry for being late to the party. The traffic was simply treacherous and then we got lost on the way, and little Jimmy here had to use the loo…,” The boy’s mother trails off as “Jimmy” blushes and ducks his head. The action makes Sherlock’s heart flip, although he doesn’t understand why. 

Sherlock’s mother shakes her head with a good-natured laugh, waving her free hand dismissively. “Oh, nonsense. Don’t worry about a thing, darling. When will you pick Jimmy up?”  
“  
Well, it’s his birthday too, actually.” She pauses to ruffle Jimmy’s hair. “So he can stay out a bit later tonight. Would around seven be alright?” Seven? Sherlock glances at the clock and counts in his head, lips pursed in concentration. Seven is roughly five hours from now, giving him plenty of time to make a friend. Sherlock smiles at the thought and distantly notices that Jimmy is staring at him. His own mother agrees, and Jimmy is given a light push to walk into the house, the door shuts, his mother wanders off to check the cake, and he and Jimmy are alone.

“So,” Jimmy begins, and Sherlock looks at him nervously, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “Where is everyone else? Don’t parties have a lot of people?”

“They didn’t show up,” Sherlock shrugs, trying his best to look nonchalant. 

“Why not?”

“I dunno. I guess because they don’t really like me.”

“Oh. Well that’s stupid.” This makes Sherlock startle, blinking rapidly as he stares at the other boy.

“Whaddya mean?” He asks, confusion in his tone.

“They just don’t like you even though you never really talk to anyone? That’s stupid. You can’t just not like someone you don’t know.” Jimmy shakes his head, grimacing. “That should be ee-lee…illee--…eagle. Ill-eagle.” Sherlock’s lips twitch up just slightly, and Jimmy returns it with a dazzling, well-practiced grin. “So, what do you do for fun?”

“Um…I like playing detective a lot.” Which, now that he thinks about it, is rather hard to do alone. 

“…What’s a detective?”

“It’s like a cop but cooler.”

“Oh! Fun.” Jimmy grins that bright grin again and holds out his hand, and Sherlock takes it without a moment’s hesitation. “Let’s go play.”

~

Two hours later, the two boys lay on their sides, face to face on the soft bed of grass under the great oak tree in Sherlock’s backyard, exchanging stories and making up their own. The ground is cool and slightly damp, and it smells like spring and cleanliness. Their stomachs are full of pizza and cake, each of them getting two slices because they’re /both/ birthday boys, which is obviously the coolest thing in the universe. Jimmy makes Sherlock’s stomach all warm and fuzzy, because he’s the first boy to actually be /nice/ to him, to enjoy spending time with him, and he’s funny and nice and really pretty for a boy. Between them on the grass, their hands are clasped together, fingers toying with fingers absently as they talk, the buzzing of insects and birds making for a pleasant, background hum. It is a perfect scene, despite what happened before it. 

Sherlock’s father had come home about twenty minutes prior, and Jimmy scowled at him because Sherlock automatically shrunk back against the grass when the man came out to greet them. His father mumbled something about ungrateful children as he marched back into the house, and Sherlock dreaded the moment where Jimmy would leave, fear freezing Sherlock’s blood in his veins. 

“He shouldn’t hurt you,” Jimmy says, his big brown eyes boring into Sherlock’s blues. “And don’t say he doesn’t, because I know he does. It’s not really hard to figure out.”

Sherlock shrugs and glances away, subconsciously squeezing Jimmy’s hand. “He says I deserve it. He’s an adult, and they always know better.”

“Nuh-uh!” Jimmy protests, letting go of Sherlock’s hands to sit up. Sherlock does the same, marveling at how cold and lonely his hands feel. “I’ve seen adults be wrong /lots/ of times. Most of them are stupid.” 

“Papa isn’t stupid, though.” 

“I think he is.” 

Sherlock pouts slightly at that, tugging at his own sleeve. “Why would he hurt me if I didn’t deserve it? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe he’s just a bad person,” Jimmy shrugs, tugging at the blades of grass. Sherlock doesn’t reply, laying back down against the grass and staring up at the midday sun.

~

“I don’t even like the nickname Jimmy. My name is James. Jimmy makes me sound like a baby.” Jimmy screws his face up into a disgusted expression at the last word, his head resting in Sherlock’s lap as they relax on his bed. 

“I like the name Jimmy. Even more if you don’t like it, because that means I have to be special to call you it because I need your permission.” Sherlock nods in agreement to his own words, his fingers combing through Jimmy’s soft, raven hair. Jimmy giggles at that, grinning up at Sherlock.

“Then only you get to call me Jimmy, okay?” Sherlock nods eagerly, warmth blooming in his chest. He’s never considered himself as special, and yet here he is being given special privileges from a boy he just met a few hours ago. There’s a part of him that distrusts Jimmy’s niceness completely, a part that thinks there is no way for any of this to be genuine, but since that part sounds a lot like Mycroft, he tries his hardest to ignore it. Besides, as he looks down at his new friend, he simply can’t imagine being hurt by him. 

The doorbell rings, catching both of them by surprise. Jimmy groans and hides his face in Sherlock’s stomach. “I don’t want to go home!” Sherlock doesn’t reply, bitter coldness quickly replacing the warmth in his gut. The next time he’ll see Jimmy is at daycare, because he’s starting there on Monday, but what if he doesn’t like Sherlock anymore? What if he finds better, cooler friends? It’s not very unlikely.   
Sherlock swallows thickly and blinks around the sudden, stinging wetness in his eyes as Jimmy reluctantly rolls off of him and the bed. Standing up as well, Sherlock watches him awkwardly before the two of them walk downstairs. Their mothers are chatting by the time they arrive, and Jimmy’s mother waves him over. He sighs and turns to Sherlock before flashing him another one of those grins, pulling him into a tight hug that Sherlock returns more out of shock than anything else. “I’ll see you at school, okay? And we’ll be the best friends ever.” With that, and a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek that shocks him more than the hug, Jimmy runs to his mother’s side and they take their leave.

Sherlock watches from the big chair by the window as their car rolls away, and just as it disappears over the horizon, he smiles.


	2. Secret Genius Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's father isn't very happy about Sherlock having a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for child-abuse, violence, and sadness.

His mouth tastes of metal as blood drips from both his nose and lips, tears intermingling with the sweat on his cheeks. Every ragged, quick breath burns in his lungs, and his legs scream in protest as he runs through the maze of his home. Behind him, the heavy and terrifyingly fast footsteps of his father chase after him, getting closer with every second. Sherlock doesn’t dare look back at his father, far too afraid that he’ll trip and be caught. He cannot be caught. He can’t.

It’s a day after his fifth birthday, and Sherlock fears with all his little heart that it was his last.

~

When Sherlock woke up the morning after Jimmy left, he was still smiling. He stayed in bed and stared at the ceiling, recalling each and every detail of his birthday, wishing there was some way for him to never forget a single second. The smile still felt foreign on his face, but more like a new resident and less like an intruder. It felt nice. 

He traced his own hand with his own fingers, remembering the warmth and weight of Jimmy’s holding it, and his smile widened. With a sigh, he got out of bed and trotted downstairs, certain that nothing could ruin his day.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Father was angry. Beyond that, he was furious. As soon as Sherlock walked into the kitchen, he was slammed against the wall by his father’s hand and pinned there, his struggles for proper breath and freedom ignored. “You pathetic filth,” he spat, Sherlock flinching at the tone and avoiding his father’s eyes. “Do you really think you deserve a friend? Do you?! What gives you the right to drag a nice boy like James down to your level?! Are you that selfish and stupid?” Sherlock’s eyes swam with tears as he shook his head furiously, not trusting his voice.

He was unceremoniously dropped to the ground, the pain and sudden impact causing the tears to overflow as his father towered over him. “You are not to speak to him again, got it? GOT IT?” His sudden backhand to Sherlock’s cheek felt like iron, and the boy let out a loud shriek at it, scrambling away and to his feet, racing from the kitchen as quickly as his little legs could carry him.   
His father gave chase, Sherlock only a few feet ahead of him, Mycroft ignoring the show completely and Mrs. Holmes pretending not the notice.

~

Now, as Sherlock runs into his room and into his closet to hide, he finally allows the sobs he’s held back to wrack his small body. He can’t not talk to Jimmy. Jimmy is his friend. Jimmy likes him and thinks he’s special and gave him permission to call him Jimmy. Not talking to him is simply not an option. He lets out a loud sob at just the thought, immediately clamping his little hands over his mouth as his father storms into the room. Sherlock holds his breath, staring through the slats of his closet door with all the terror his young mind is capable of, his whole being trembling from the force of it. 

“Where are you?!” His father yells, Sherlock’s clothing and precious toys being tossed around carelessly in his search. When he reaches the closet, Sherlock tries and fails to suppress a whimper as the door is yanked open. Immediately, his father grips him by the arm and pulls him out, ignoring his strangled cry as he tugs Sherlock’s head back by his hair to meet his eyes, blazing and furious and terrifying beyond all logic. “Listen to me, you recalcitrant waste of a child. You will not speak to him. I will find out, and when I do, I will make you wish for something as nice as death.” With that, and a well-aimed kick to Sherlock’s fragile ribs, the boy is dropped to the ground as his father storms out.  
Little does the eldest Holmes know that Sherlock already wishes for it. 

~

On Monday, two days later, the bruises on Sherlock’s body are a bright purple-black, and it makes him sick to see himself without clothing on. His mother had wrapped up his ribs for him and given him a bath, softly and gently scolding him for angering his father. He took it all in silence and with a downcast gaze, far too used to everything being his fault. It always will be, and so there’s no point in fighting it.  
So, despite being a rather balmy spring day, Sherlock wears a big black sweater and baggy jeans held up with a too-big belt, his hood covering his matted curls as he stalks next to his mother towards his classroom. Once he’s dropped off, he’s ordered to take off the hood. He ignores this, and the teacher takes it off for him, clicking her teeth when he flinches away from her touch.

He’s always hated his day-care. It’s full of stupid little kids who still slobber everywhere and try to poke and prod at him like he’s an experiment, and he’s never wanted any part of that. The toys are never fun and no one ever plays detective with him, but now there’s a new addition. Jimmy beams at him as soon as he sees him, bounding over with an enthusiasm that makes Sherlock’s heart clench painfully. 

“Sherlock! I missed you!” He grins, tugging him into a tight hug to the shock of his peers and teachers. Sherlock’s arms raise as he starts to return the hug, but then he remembers his father’s warning and pulls away, his eyes downcast. Jimmy frowns, hurt flashing in his eyes as he tilts his head. Sherlock has to bite his lip so he doesn’t start crying.

“I can’t…talk to you again, Jimmy.” The words sound quiet and weak in his own ears, and he prays to every god he doesn't believe in that it doesn’t truly sound like that. 

“What?! What do you mean? Did I do something wrong?” Jimmy steps towards him with an extended hand, his eyes big and sad. “I’m sorry.”

“No!” Sherlock’s eyes widen at the very notion of something like that, his head snapping up, almost shouting the words before he shakes his head and looks down again. “No. It’s not that. It’s…” He trails off, uncertain of how to finish that. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

With that, he storms away, leaving Jimmy alone and hurt behind him.

For the rest of the first half of the day, he manages to avoid him. Sherlock sits in his corner as always, drawing smiles but not trying to mimic them, trying his best to blend in with the brightly-colored walls around him. It doesn’t work, of course, and when the bell rings for recess and they’re let outside, Jimmy finds him immediately, glaring at him.

On instinct, Sherlock flinches away from the look and Jimmy’s eyes soften immediately. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want answers, but I think you just answered them and proved my point.”

“What point?” He hisses, wrapping his arms around himself and kicking at the grass.

“Your father told you not to talk to me, didn’t he?” Jimmy asks, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and resting his head on his shoulder. Sherlock, despite his better judgment, relaxes at the contact, nodding silently and squeezing his eyes shut tightly. 

“He said I was being selfish and stupid for dragging you down to my level. And that if I ever spoke to you again he’d make me wish I was dead,” Sherlock mumbles, shaking faintly in Jimmy’s embrace. Jimmy sighs and tugs him over to the shade by the building, sitting with him on the ground. Immediately and without hesitation, Sherlock curls up against Jimmy’s side. “I don’t want to stop speaking to you. You’re my friend.” He sniffles, letting out a small sob as soft fingers comb through his hair. 

“You’re not selfish for wanting a friend, Sherlock. And you’re not stupid, either. All that makes you is human, and there’s nothing wrong with being human. It’s who we are. You’re my friend, too. And you don’t have to stop speaking to me. Your father doesn’t have to know we’re friends.”

“But he’ll find out! He’ll always find out!” Jimmy scoffs at this and Sherlock peeks up at him from where his face is buried into the boy’s chest. “What?”

“You and me are too smart to be caught if we don’t want to. He won’t find out.”

This time, Sherlock’s the one who scoffs, nuzzling closer to Jimmy and shutting his eyes again. “I’m not smart, Jimmy. I’m the stupid one.”

“You are not! I’ll prove it!” Jimmy shifts slightly as he scans the playground before pointing at a chubby boy chasing a group of girls, all of them shrieking as they try to get away. “Tell me about him.” Sherlock opens his eyes and wipes away his tears, sitting up just slightly to see better.

“Um. He’s allergic to peanuts because he has that weird pen-thing in his pocket and the most common allergy for young boys is a nut allergy, but it has to be peanuts because I’ve seen him eat other nuts. He wants to be an artist when he grows up but he doesn’t think he’s good. I always see him spending decades, whatever that is, on his drawings in class but he never lets the teacher put them up. His mother is unemployed, which anyone could see based on the folds of his trousers, and…that’s it.” When Sherlock looks up at Jimmy, he’s startled to see that the boy is grinning widely at him. Jimmy plants a big, wet kiss on his forehead, causing Sherlock’s cheeks to flush and his head to duck in embarrassment. 

“See? You’re smart. We’re smart.”

“But all that was obvious!”

“To us. To them,” Jimmy says, gesturing to their peers, “you just did the coolest trick ever. They don’t see it. They don’t think. We’re soopear….sup-hear…better than them.” He grunts slightly at the word he couldn’t pronounce, shaking his head. “I can spell that word and they can’t, so that just proves my point.” Jimmy huffs indignantly and Sherlock smiles again, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

“What if my father does find out, though? What happens then?” Sherlock asks shyly, ashamed of the fear in his voice. Jimmy purses his lips in thought for a few moments.

“If he does, which he won’t, I’ll protect you. That’s what friends do. Especially genius friends.”

“So we’re secret genius friends?” Jimmy smiles down at him at the question and hugs him closer.

“The best secret genius friends.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”


	3. Pirates and Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets can be a very hard thing to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to make my updates weekly. So, a week from today, the next chapter will be posted. Thank you all for your kind words! This chapter has a warning for violence and sadness.

For the next year, Jimmy Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes keep their best friendship a secret. Their teachers fret to Sherlock’s mother about how Jimmy makes fun of the small boy as the two giggle at each other behind their backs. They never have any playdates, but Sherlock’s parents are neglectful for the most part so sneaking to the park to meet Jimmy is no chore. Everything goes, as Jimmy predicted, smoothly, with no one the wiser. 

When Sherlock and Jimmy turn six, Sherlock decides that he wants to be a pirate. He ignores his microscope and chemistry books in favor of strapping black construction paper to his eye and placing an origami hat on his head. Jimmy giggles at him in recess as Sherlock runs around him with a toy sword, making the best pirate noises he can think of. Finally, with a great flourish, Sherlock points the sword at Jimmy’s throat with the best predatory grin he can muster, eyes flashing with mischief. “You’re my prisoner now, Jimmy.” 

“No!” Jimmy mock-gasps, putting his hands up and grinning at him. “What’re you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna…I’m….,” Sherlock trails off upon realizing that he hasn’t actually thought of what he’s going to do, using the tip of his sword to scratch his head with a frown. Jimmy takes advantage of the weakness and tackles Sherlock to the ground, both boys squealing with laughter and childhood joy as they wrestle each other on the soft grass. 

Sherlock realizes with a sudden sureness that this is the first time he’s ever been happy, and he realizes in the next instant that it’s something he never wants to let go of. As if to reassure himself of the reality of his happiness, he wraps his arms and legs around Jimmy’s small body and clings to him, and his best friend changes from playfully pushing him to petting his hair without a single comment.

~

The night after that, Sherlock lies alone in his room, drawing pirates with smiles on a piece of paper. He’s on his stomach on his bed, feet up and swinging lightly behind him, tongue poking out through his lips in concentration as he draws, his once-beloved chemistry textbook reduced to a drawing desk. His mother is watching programs on the tele downstairs, his father blessedly out for the night with his mates. The sun shines in long beams through his blinds, bathing his bedroom in warm, low light. 

All in all, Sherlock is more relaxed and content than he’s been in months, and he intends to take full advantage of it. 

The peace of it all lasts only a few moments, however, as Mycroft’s heavy footsteps slowly approach his room. Sherlock grimaces and forces himself to continue drawing, hoping his big brother bypasses his room and goes somewhere else. Luck is not on his side and soon enough Mycroft pushes open his bedroom door without so much as a knock, his lips pulled into a frown that makes him look scarily similar to his father. Sherlock fights a shiver as he looks up and regards his brother calmly, his hands automatically shielding his drawing from view. 

Mycroft sits down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and threads his fingers through the boy’s hair in a mockery of affection, ignoring how Sherlock flinches away from him. “Oh, brother. Did you really think no one would found out? Did you really think you were clever enough to pull something like this off?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock mutters, although the sinking feeling in his gut tells another story. 

“You and that Moriarty kid have been friends since your fifth birthday. You have disobeyed Father’s wishes.” 

“No! I haven’t!” Sitting up, Sherlock glares at his brother, eyes stinging with tears as his lower lip wobbles petulantly. Without another word, Mycroft grabs his drawing and points at the two pirates—two pirates who bear an unmistakable resemblance to Sherlock and Jimmy. At the sight of it, Sherlock’s bravado crumbles, and the little boy crawls into his big brother’s lap and sobs into his chest, little hands clutching at his shirt. “Ple-please don’t tell Father, Myc. Please. Jimmy says he likes being my friend! He sai—said he promises I’m not forcing him!” Mycroft’s lanky arms wrap around Sherlock and cradle him close, even as his eyes   
twinkle with new, sadistic possibilities. 

“Do you think yourself above punishment, little brother? Do you think you’re better than Father?”

“No!”

“Then why did you stay James’ friend?”

“Be-because I just,” Sherlock sniffles, his voice turning meek and shy, “I’ve never had a friend before and I really want one and Jimmy likes me. I like him too. We’re going to be pirates, Myc! The best pirates ever!” He looks up and gives Mycroft a watery smile, his eyes red and puffy. 

Mycroft sighs and brings a hand up to wipe Sherlock’s tears, pausing only for a second before slapping the boy hard enough to send him to the ground, letting out a loud shriek of pain. He stands up and Sherlock immediately scrambles away from him, whimpering like the wounded animal he’s been raised to be. With a heavy boot and all of his thirteen year old strength, Mycroft presses his foot to Sherlock’s ribs, eyes narrowing as his little brother coughs and squirms in vain. “Listen to me, you recalcitrant child. You do not deserve friends. You do not deserve anything other than what Father and I give you. You are a useless, pathetic, stupid boy, and the sooner you realize that the better everyone will be. Understood?” Sherlock nods frantically until Mycroft lifts off his boot and storms from the room.

Curling up into a small ball, Sherlock just sobs until he passes out from exhaustion, pirates and smiles floating through his mind. 

~

The next day, Sherlock sobs into Jimmy’s neck at recess, his little arms clutching him close as if he’ll disappear the second he lets go. Jimmy shields him from their peers’ views, rubbing his back and shushing him softly. “I told you! I to-told you I’m too stupid!” Sherlock cries, nuzzling into the crook of Jimmy’s shoulder.

“You’re not stupid, ‘Lock. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Jimmy presses a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. 

“How?!”

“We’ll figure something out, okay? We will. Here.” He drags him into the building as Sherlock sniffles and wipes away his own tears, trying to hide his puffy face from any teachers they walk past. He envies how calm Jimmy always is. He envies how in control and brilliant, how infallible his best friend seems to be. Jimmy sits him down at the drawing corner and grabs a piece of construction paper, and for a few minutes, they’re silent, the room filled only with the distant sound of children laughing and the scribbling of Jimmy’s crayon.

“Jimmy?” Sherlock asks quietly. Jimmy replies with a questioning sound, brows furrowed in concentration. “Why don’t you feel pain?” At this, Jimmy pauses and looks up at Sherlock, giving him a small grin.

“You always feel pain, Sherlock. But you don’t have to fear it. That’s what people don’t get.” Sherlock nods at this, contemplating the words, and Jimmy goes back to drawing without another word.

When he’s done, Jimmy shows Sherlock the drawing with a lopsided smile. He’s drawn himself and Sherlock holding hands, both with big smiles on their faces, dressed in pirate garb and drawn at the big tree behind Sherlock’s house. The lines are sloppy and as childish as a six year old’s drawing should be, but it’s insignificant to the sheer emotion behind it. It’s as if Jimmy’s woven the very strings of his little heart into every line and curve of the picture, and the sight of it makes Sherlock’s heart clench and a fresh wave of tears fill his eyes. “It’s perfect,” he whispers, reaching for it.

At the last second, Jimmy gasps and yanks it back, ignoring Sherlock’s questioning look as he scribbles something on it before handing it over. There, scrawled beneath their drawn feet, Jimmy’s written “Secret Genius Friends” on it. Sherlock whimpers and launches himself at his best friend, hugging him tightly and being mindful not to wrinkle the paper. Jimmy giggles and hugs him close, and for a few long moments the two are silent as they embrace. “We’re best friends forever, okay? No one can ruin that.”

“No one,” Sherlock affirms, and for a few selfish minutes, he allows himself to believe that.

~

At home, Jimmy’s drawing is hidden under a pile of socks in his dresser. Sherlock eats all of his dinner without a single complaint about the broccoli, his gaze averted from everyone and his mouth especially sass-free. He plays the part of the perfect child, ignoring his brother’s eyes on him throughout the evening. When it’s bedtime, he kisses his mother’s cheek before she pats his head and tucks him in, leaving with a soft smile. He curls up under his covers and squeezes his eyes shut tightly, hoping he’s gotten away with his lie. Maybe Father no longer cares. Maybe Mycroft was just trying to scare him and didn’t really tell. 

Hope blooms in his chest for all of five seconds before his bedroom door whooshes open and his father drags him from bed by his hair. He screams before he’s kicked in the ribs, the wind rushing from him and leaving him gasping and wheezing for air. With terrified eyes he looks up at his father, who glares down at him with fiery eyes and a deep scowl. “You lying, stupid waste of a boy,” he hisses, his voice never rising above a normal speaking tone, and yet it would’ve been less terrifying if the words were screamed. 

“I’m sorry!” Sherlock gasps, trembling and curling in on himself automatically, coughing and spluttering. He, vaguely, notices that his mouth tastes of blood, and he lets out a small, painful sob at the thought. His father grabs onto the front of Sherlock’s night-shirt and yanks him into the air, Sherlock’s little legs kicking automatically as the floor disappears beneath them. 

“Do you think ‘sorry’ cuts it?! You lied, William!” Sherlock winces at the use of his first name; he’s always hated it because his father always uses it. “You lied! That boy’s father is a very esteemed coworker of mine and I will not have you ruining what I’ve built because you think you deserve love! You don’t.” His father growls, and Sherlock lets out a choked sob, nodding frantically. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Father. I love you. Please,” the child babbles, internally hating himself for how pathetic he sounds. 

“You will live your life without ever being loved because that is what you deserve. Say it. Say it now.” Mr. Holmes drops his son to the ground, smirking as Sherlock yelps at his wounds being jostled. He pushes himself up into a seated position and stares at his father’s shoes.

“I-I…I will live m-my life without ever b-being loved because that is what I deserve.” Each word stabs his heart like a dagger, which twists and digs deeper as he thinks of Jimmy’s smiling face. He lets out a sob and draws his knees to his chest. 

“Say, ‘I will not attempt to make any more friends because I do not deserve them.’”

“I will not attempt to make any more friends because I do not deserve them.”

“I am stupid.”

“I am,” Sherlock pauses to whimper, the words hurting far more than he thought they would. “I-I am stupid.”

“Worthless.”

“Worthless.”

“And unloveable.”

“A-and unloveable.” This time, Sherlock sobs, the force of it making him light-headed and his ribs ache. His father grins and nods, straightening up. 

“Do you have anything of his?” Sherlock’s mind immediately flashes to the drawing and he shakes his head frantically, his eyes wide and panicked. His father picks up on the lie immediately and grabs Sherlock by the hair again, lifting him up. Sherlock screams and grabs at his father’s hand, squirming and flailing at the grip. “Where?! Where is it?!”

“Please! Please let me keep it, Father!” Sherlock yells, his words slurred with his cries. 

“TELL ME!” His father roars, shaking Sherlock and causing pain to shoot through his body, his scalp feeling as though it was lit on fire. Sobbing far too hard to answer, Sherlock points with a shaking finger at his dresser. He’s dropped onto his bed immediately as his father rifles through the drawers before finding the picture. Upon looking at it, the older man seems to relax, a small smile even stretching his lips as he looks at it. “Oh,” he croons, looking over at Sherlock. “Did he draw this for you?” Whimpering, Sherlock nods, rubbing his head. 

“I-I promise not to say anything, Father. I just want to keep it to look at. Please. Please?” 

His father chuckles as he walks over to his son on the bed, the picture extended towards him. Sherlock walks over to the edge of the bed on his knees, little hands stretched out towards it with a hopeful, small smile. At the last second, however, it’s yanked back and instantly crumpled and ripped, his father’s laughter overshadowed by Sherlock’s renewed and anguished sobs. The boy curls up in bed as his father takes the ruined picture from his room, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock is pulled from his daycare the next day, and for the next few years, all of his drawings have frowns. 

His pirate costume is never looked at again.


	4. Something Old and Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy's back, but no one is ever exactly how you remember them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic language, child abuse, and insecurity. I'm also very sorry for the late update; I was away over the weekend and forgot to email the chapter to my tablet to work on, which I brought for that exact purpose. Sigh. Here it is! (Also, fun fact: "Mr. Longo" is a carbon copy of my old Chemistry teacher. He really looked and acted like that. It was creepy as shit.)

“You’re a filthy fucking faggot,” Sherlock’s father hisses at him, holding Sherlock against the wall by his throat. Sherlock chokes and wheezes under the man’s grip but doesn’t complain or struggle, keeping his eyes averted. He’s fourteen now, his body slowly going through the pains of puberty, voice squeaky on some words and deep on others. His hair is still shaggy and long, despite the requirement of the prestigious private school he now attends, but his upper lip holds just the slightest fuzz of a possible moustache. 

“I don’t,” Sherlock starts, his voice breathy and strained, “I’m not. I’m not.”

“You are. You think I don’t see how you stare at those blokes? Think I can’t tell how much you want to suck their cocks like the shit you are?” The words bite at Sherlock and he glares wordlessly at his father, eyes watering against his will. “Those blokes” happen to be a group of motorcyclists that sometimes walk around Sherlock’s neighborhood, clad in leather and denim with tattoos and slicked back hair. And, unfortunately for Sherlock’s increasingly obvious sexuality, are very, very fit. Sherlock can’t help but stare at them, imagining what it would be like to be a part of their group, to be with one of them in the most intimate of ways. 

The thought always tightens his trousers and flushes his cheeks, a very unfortunate side-effect of puberty. 

Sherlock doesn’t grace his father with a reply, wheezing slightly when the grip around his throat tightens. “You’re gonna give me a bad rep, boy. I can’t have a fucking poof for a son! God, you’ve been this way ever since you were friends with that stupid boy.” 

“Don’t call him that,” Sherlock hisses, eyes flashing with fury at the insult to his old friend. Despite not seeing Jimmy since they were six, Sherlock still loves the boy fiercely and misses him even more. He is still his best friend. “He was brilliant, okay? He was brilliant! He made me happy!”

His father laughs ruefully and drops Sherlock, watching him disdainfully as the boy scrambles to his feet and rubs his throat. “Now there’s a faggot answer if I’ve ever heard one. You’re a disgrace, William.” Sherlock flinches at the barely mentioned name, looking down without a reply. Moments later, he’s alone in his room, the door slammed shut.

With a sigh, Sherlock walks over to his bed and plops down onto it, reaching under his pillow and pulling out a crumbled, barely distinguishable drawing. After his father ripped it up all those years ago, Sherlock snuck downstairs in the middle of the night and fished out the pieces, taping them together. The drawing is still ruined, still smells faintly of trash, but the lines are visible and still bring warmth and light to Sherlock’s chest. He stares at the drawing with a faint smile, tracing his fingertips over Jimmy’s colored face before folding the paper back up gingerly and shoving it back under the pillow. 

Dwelling on the past doesn’t end well, Sherlock knows. All it does is reawaken dormant pain and sentiment, neither of which are useful or affordable. He has far more important things to do with his life if he intends to ever be a professional chemist. With a hardened resolve at the thought, Sherlock arranges his expression to one of cool indifference, strengthens the walls around his heart, and gets ready for tomorrow’s classes.

~

The other boys yell abuse at him as he walks down the hall, which he ignores with a practiced grace. Occasionally, someone throws a paper ball or pencil at him, making him flinch against his will, and everyone hoots and hollers like the mindless animals they are. With a clenched jaw, he keeps his books close to his chest and his eyes on his feet, walking as quickly as possible to IB English. This is routine for him. He has had exactly zero friends since he was forced to leave Jimmy, something he’s fine with for the most part, and fills his days up with avoiding his peers as much as possible. It’s either that or endure tedious, repetitive ridicule for the eight hours he’s trapped in this hell-hole.

Upon entering his class, he immediately takes his usual seat in the far back, already moving to pull out his notebook to scribble in. All of his classes are dreadfully easy to him, attended purely out of a lack of better things to do, and so his notebooks are filled with every observation he makes. Because of this, his deductive reasoning skills get better every day, which has already proven to be beyond useful. He thinks Jimmy would be proud of him and the thought makes him happier than it should. 

His peers trickle into the classroom like water leaking from a faucet, slow and reluctant with every step. They always complain that this class is too hard, the books assigned too difficult to understand. Sherlock both pities and envies their vacant minds. As the class takes their seats and the bell rings, their teacher stands up from his desk, clasping his hands together with a grin far too cheery for the early hour.

Their teacher, Mr. Longo, is a short man with greying dark hair and laugh lines etched into his face. He’s wide-set with a bit of a bow-leg (Sherlock thinks it’s from a childhood accident), and always talks with a happy tone, no matter the subject. Most students find him creepy and others find him annoying, a category that Sherlock falls in to. He lets out a long-suffering sigh and looks up from his notebook to pretend to pay attention.

“Good morning, class!” Mr. Longo croons, looking around the room. “How are you all doing this fine day?” A few people grunt, a few others groan. Everyone else, Sherlock included, remains silent, staring at their teacher with half-asleep, bored expressions. “Aww, brighten up. I have exciting news today! We have a new student!” More grunts echo around the room at this, some straightening at the prospect of either a new friend or a new victim. Sherlock couldn’t care either way, really, as long as whoever he is leaves him alone.

Honestly, with the vendetta Sherlock knows Fate has against him, he should’ve expected it when Jimmy Moriarty walks into the room. Every muscle in his body locks up, his eyes going wide as they meet Jimmy’s. His heart leaps to his throat and blooms with heat, old sentiment breaking through the walls around his heart and returning as though it never left. With a small, barely noticeable smile, Jimmy walks over after his quick introduction and sits next to Sherlock.

He looks…different, and not only in the way that age changes someone. His hair is still dark and cut short, cheeks still round (though not as round) with the last remnants of childhood, lips still a light pink. But his eyes no longer hold the warmth and kindness they used to. Instead, they’re sharp and cool, almost mocking in a way, and Sherlock despises the look instantly. It doesn’t belong on Jimmy and he decides to try and make it leave as quickly as possible.

The class proceeds with neither boys talking, simply sitting next to each other and getting used to the other’s presence after so many years, taking in their changes and similarities. Sherlock’s hand itches to hold Jimmy’s, feel that weight and warmth he’s only been able to dream about, but his eyes stop him. He no longer knows if his touch is wanted, and the thought stops any notion of trying to find out. 

When the bell rings, the boys silently pack up their stuff as everyone else rushes out, eager to get to their next class. Sherlock already knows that he won’t be able to concentrate in his so he doesn’t bother rushing, deciding to skip it to (hopefully) spend time with Jimmy. “I have chemistry next hour,” Jimmy says suddenly, his voice a low Irish drawl that causes a foreign heat to bubble up in Sherlock’s stomach. “How   
about you?” 

Sherlock was just getting used to the silence, planning on being the one to break it, but he’s thankful that he doesn’t have to. “I, it’s…same. The same,” he stammers, his ears tinging pink. Jimmy smiles at him, suddenly, and that look in his eyes is suddenly just as warm as he remembers. 

“Wanna skip it?”

“Please.”

With a grin, Jimmy grabs his backpack and leaves the room, and Sherlock follows after him without a thought. 

They end up outside behind the school, leaning against the wall. The brisk autumn air carries the pleasant smell of fallen leaves and Earth, and Sherlock inhales deeply before exhaling a sigh. “I…missed you.” The phrase sounds so weak, so unable to convey what he really means. But Jimmy seems to understand it and he’s suddenly wrapped up into a tight hug with his old best friend’s lips by his ear.

“I missed you too,” he whispers, and Sherlock hugs him back so fiercely that he distantly wonders if he’s hurting him. But Jimmy doesn’t comment so Sherlock just buries his face into the crook of his neck and holds on, a weight that he didn’t know he was carrying lifting from his chest. Jimmy’s warm hand rubs firm circles into Sherlock’s back as they hug, swaying gently from side to side, and Sherlock practically melts against him, relishing in the first hug he’s had since he left. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbles, his eyes squeezed shut tightly as he clings to him. “I’m so sorry, Jimmy. I didn’t mean to leave. I didn’t…I didn’t have a choice.” His words are rushed and almost desperate, and he lifts his head to plead with his eyes. “Do you forgive me?”

Jimmy only smiles and strokes Sherlock’s cheek, the smile widening when he leans into the warmth. “There’s nothing to forgive. We were children. You wouldn’t have left if you had a choice.” Relieved, Sherlock returns the smile and nods, leaning down just slightly to kiss Jimmy’s cheek. “But now we’re older, yes? You won’t leave again, right?” Sherlock’s smile falters slightly; the question sounds more like a warning than a hopeful inquiry, his eyes flashing with something that reminds Sherlock almost of his father. He clears his throat and shakes his head, forcing himself to smile back once more.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to that,” Jimmy says, the words teasing but the tone frighteningly serious. Sherlock fights a shudder and just hugs him again, hiding his face in the warmth of Jimmy’s body. 

~

In the weeks that follow, Jimmy and Sherlock fall into a rhythm, now old enough to take more reasonable precautions to keep their friendship secret. It’s easier for Sherlock now that Mycroft is away at Uni, which takes a lot of the stress away. Every morning, Sherlock and Jimmy meet up behind the school to talk and catch up before walking to class. Sherlock tells him about his still ongoing abuse at home and Jimmy’s eyes always flash with that same dangerous glint, his smile holding a sharp edge to it, but Sherlock ignores that. Jimmy would never hurt him; even after all these years, he knows that. Every day, they have lunch together, ignoring the stares from their classmates. 

The ridicule from them stopped after one day when Jimmy whispered something Sherlock didn’t hear into one of the bully’s ears, causing his eyes to widen before running away. When Sherlock asked about it, Jimmy simply shrugged and wrapped around his waist, tugging him close. He doesn’t ask again. 

Now, they sit in the mess hall in the far corner, munching on sandwiches and crisps as they sit in a comfortable silence. Sherlock is lost in his thoughts, simply content to be with Jimmy, knowing that his feelings for the boy were just a bit beyond the platonic and not knowing exactly how to handle that. Is Jimmy even gay? Bisexual? He certainly acts like it with him, but he’s always been rather affectionate in general. Surely, even if he was, he wouldn’t want to be Sherlock, right? 

He feels the heat of Jimmy’s stare on him and looks up, raising an eyebrow and flashing the teen a small smile. Jimmy returns it and leans back in his seat, head tilted to the side slightly. “Do you remember Carl Powers?” he asks, his smile turning almost predatory as he says the name. Sherlock frowns, putting down his sandwich.

“The boy who was killed?”

“Why do you say killed? The cops ruled it as a natural death.”

Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes. “It’s obviously not that. I don’t know why yet, but something’s off about it. I know.” Suddenly, Jimmy grins and leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper.

“You’re right. Wanna know how I know?”

Sherlock leans forward as well, curiosity blooming in his chest. “Yes.”

“Because I killed him.”


	5. Fear and Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is one supposed to trust their gut or their heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a horrible, bad, evil person and I am so sorry for the long wait. Writers' Block hit me like a freight train and things kept coming up /and/ I just started my summer class at Uni. So. Obviously I cannot keep with the once a week thing, but I will promise ASAP updates. In this chapter, there is self-harm (like if you squint), crazy!Jimmy, unhealthy views on relationships, and a little bit of smut. 
> 
> Also, I've started a business called Winter Writes, where you give me a fanfiction you want written and I write it for a small price, because I'm very short on cash and have a wedding to go to across the country in a couple of months. All info is at winterwritesfanfiction.tumblr.com, so please check it out!

Cold, numbing fear and shock spread through Sherlock’s veins as he stares at the boy across from him, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. Of course, it makes sense when he thinks about it. From the start of the case, he knew something was wrong. He knew it didn’t add up. But to hear it spoken and confirmed is….terrifying. Sherlock clears his throat a couple of times and looks around, ignoring Jimmy’s raised eyebrow in silent question, and tries to make it look like he doesn’t see his father in his best friend’s eyes. “Why?” he asks finally, forcing himself to look at the boy. 

“He deserved it,” Jimmy replies briskly, picking an invisible bit of lint off of his sleeve. Although his posture is calm, his eyes hold that same cold, hard edge, his lips curled down into a frown that can only be described as sinister. “He laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing.”

The breath whooshes out of Sherlock all at once and makes him lightheaded. He swallows thickly and pushes away his tray of food. “You…killed someone because they laughed at you?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you?” Now the frown is more confused than intimidating, Jimmy’s head tilted just so to the side.

“No!” Sherlock shouts the word louder than he intended and sinks down slightly on the bench when people turn to stare. He takes a deep breath and continues, voice softer. “Jimmy, this isn’t…you’re not this. You’re better than this. You know that. What if the cops find out it was you? You’ll go away forever!” 

Jimmy sighs at him and gets up from his seat, moving next to Sherlock and draping an arm over his shoulders. Sherlock leans into him automatically and tucks his head into the crook of his neck. “I won’t get caught, Sherlock. I’m too smart for that, and so are you. …You’re not going to tell anyone, right?” Although his voice remains soft, his grip tightens just slightly on the last word in a silent threat. Sherlock nods wordlessly, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “Then I have nothing to worry about. And neither do you.”

Sherlock exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding and nods again, wrapping his arms around Jimmy’s waist and hugging him tightly. He can almost hear Jimmy’s answering smile, and hopes he hasn’t made a horrible mistake.

~

The next year and a half go by in a confusing, exhilarating blur. Unlike last time, Sherlock’s father doesn’t find out about their friendship, and he doesn’t care enough about Sherlock to question where he disappears to a couple of times a week. Sherlock and Jimmy are friends, best friends, and that’s the way it’s going to stay. Sure, sometimes they hold hands when they walk, or fall asleep with their gangly limbs tangled together. Sometimes Jimmy kisses Sherlock’s cheek, but it lands a bit too close to his mouth, and neither of them say anything about it. Sometimes Sherlock does the same thing.

Sometimes, however, Jimmy loses his temper. Nothing sets it off, really. No fights or arguments or bad days. He just…breaks. Shatters, like fine china on a hardwood floor. Sherlock’s been a witness every time it’s happened. 

The first time, they were taking a walk, and Jimmy stopped suddenly and made Sherlock stumble at the loss of momentum. Sherlock had looked back at Jimmy and raised an eyebrow but faltered immediately at the cold, dangerous glare he was met with in return. “Do you ever wonder, Sherlock, what a man’s throat would feel like under your hands?” Jimmy had asked, his voice deathly quiet. Sherlock shook his head meekly in reply. “I have. I want to. I think I will one day.” And with that, he continued on walking.

The second time was scarier, in a way, because it was the first time that Jimmy looked as frightened as he was. They were in Sherlock’s home, his parents off for “alone time” at the movies, the two boys peacefully reading on their respective sides of the couch. Suddenly, there was a loud crash as Jimmy threw his book at the wall and let out a harsh shout. Sherlock was horrified to see the tears running down his best friend’s cheeks, only staring as Jimmy crawled over to him and into his lap, pressing his face to Sherlock’s neck. After a moment, Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and hugged him tightly. Jimmy had whispered, “I want to see someone die because of me,” in the tiniest of voices before not speaking again for another hour.

Lastly and more recently, Sherlock had spent two hours with a sobbing, screaming Jimmy in the (locked) boys’ bathroom at school. Jimmy dragged his nails down his own arms, leaving angry red marks in their wake, as he begged Sherlock to kill him. “I’m a monster!” Jimmy shouted, his voice cracking as he sank down to the dirty floor. “I don’t deserve to live! I’ll kill someone! I will kill someone!” Sherlock, sobbing with him now, denied all of this vehemently. He didn’t care what Jimmy was capable of. He didn’t. He just wanted his best friend to be happy and okay.   
They left the bathroom just past the two hour mark, with Sherlock holding Jimmy’s hand so he didn’t leave.

Now, on Sherlock and Jimmy’s sixteenth birthday, they spend the day chain-smoking cheap cigarettes in Jimmy’s bedroom, the soft tunes of The Beatles echoing throughout the room from the record-player. The two are lying on the bed on their backs, Sherlock’s head tilted just so to rest against Jimmy’s shoulder, an ashtray besides each of them as the smoke wafts out through the open window. The hands that are not holding their cigarettes hold each other, fingers twined together in a way that’s become so natural and effortless for them. They do not speak because they do not need to.

Jimmy looks over at him and presses a small kiss to his forehead, squeezing his hand gently and urging Sherlock to look up at him. When he does, Jimmy speaks in a quiet, almost shy voice. “Are you afraid of me, Sherlock?” 

Yes, Sherlock thinks, and immediately regrets it, self-loathing turning his heart to stone. How dare he be afraid of the one person who cares about him? Shaking his head, he presses a kiss to Jimmy’s jaw. “Of course not.”

“Do you promise?”

“You’re my best friend, Jimmy. I love you.” Sherlock is very aware of how he’s avoiding the promise, and so is Jimmy, but neither of them comment on it. Sherlock takes a long, deep drag from his cigarette before blowing out the smoke in practiced, perfect rings, letting out a sigh as the nicotine rushes through his veins. Jimmy’s still staring at him with an unreadable expression, his brows furrowed as if in thought. When Sherlock turns slightly to ask about it, warm, soft lips press against his own instead, moving in a slow, hesitant dance that makes his blood sing. Jimmy pulls back a moment later with red cheeks and a small grin.

“Was that okay?” he whispers, a hand moving to brush Sherlock’s unruly curls from his face. Sherlock nods jerkily, unconsciously licking his lips. 

“I…yes. Yes. That…good.” Sherlock clears his throat and feels his blood blush his cheeks. “Could…you possibly do it again?” His voice is small and shy, and he curses himself for it, but Jimmy doesn’t seem to mind. He only smiles and shifts closer, his hand lingering on Sherlock’s cheek before drawing him into another kiss. 

Sherlock, whenever he thought about it, always figured kissing was just another moronic, ordinary thing he was above. He thought it was disgusting, the idea of swapping saliva with another deplorable and degrading, and he’s never wanted part of it. But this….this is so different. This is hot, wet heat and gentle, soft pushes and pulls, their lips moving in a way that’s so natural it almost seems rehearsed. Sherlock’s breath hitches when Jimmy’s tongue gently pushes into his mouth, tasting him, his hand moving into Sherlock’s hair and tugging at the strands in a way that makes Sherlock’s toes curl in his socks. He acts on instinct, now, pressing closer to his best friend and fisting his hands into Jimmy’s t-shirt.

With a low growl into Sherlock’s mouth, Jimmy gently pushes him onto his back and crawls over him, settling between his legs and letting their hips rest together. The friction of it against Sherlock’s crotch is almost too good, his head swimming with sensation as he bucks his hips and wraps his arms around Jimmy’s neck. Through the blood rushing in his ears, he hears Jimmy’s answering moan before he kisses and sucks down the expanse of Sherlock’s neck, biting over his pulse-point before licking at the mark. Sherlock throws his head back against the pillows, his breath escaping him in hot pants and short, needy moans as his fingers tangle into Jimmy’s hair and hold on.

“Fuck,” Jimmy hisses against Sherlock’s skin, his hips rocking down in a desperate frot. They’re both too far gone to take off their clothes, teenage hormones amplifying everything and making it all so good. Sherlock wraps his legs around Jimmy’s waist to grind and rut up against him, their moans and pants for more mingling in the air. Jimmy kisses Sherlock frantically as he grips onto his hips, pulling him up into every downward thrust as he bites and sucks at his lips, Sherlock’s fevered sounds rising in pitch with each one.

It’s over shortly after that, both of them too young and too deprived for it to last any longer. Sherlock cries out Jimmy’s name in a wrecked, ragged voice, followed seconds later by Jimmy’s harsh and wordless shout into Sherlock’s neck. Jimmy slumps on top of him, both of them panting heavily with closed eyes, clinging to each other like lifelines. Eventually, they’re both uncomfortably aware of the wet stickiness in their pants and shift away from each other, shy glances and smiles replacing words between them.

An hour later, they’re both showered and in pajamas (Sherlock borrowed them from Jimmy and laughed at how short they were on him, laughing harder when Jimmy threw a pillow at his face because of it), cuddled against each other in bed. Sherlock’s parents know that there’s always the possibility of Sherlock staying out overnight – wherever it is they think he goes – and so he doesn’t bother to worry as he buries his face into Jimmy’s neck. 

Jimmy’s hand is a warm, soft weight on his back as it massages gentle circles into his skin, and as Sherlock falls asleep he wonders why he ever doubted the best thing that’s ever happened to him.


End file.
